


Strawberries & Cigarettes

by ellipsometry



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Breathplay, M/M, Miklan Vapes Agenda, Reference to Child Abuse, Road Trips, Size Kink, content warning for miklan in general lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-10
Updated: 2020-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:33:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,386
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23087824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ellipsometry/pseuds/ellipsometry
Summary: “You got pretty,” Miklan announces, crushing another can and tossing it across the room.It’s nothing Glenn hasn’t heard before, the same tired, lazy compliment he’s heard from frat boys and business executives alike. He’s not unaware of how he looks, long dark lashes, beauty mark under his lip, a silky ponytail tossed over his shoulder.  He’s not unaware of the impression he makes.Still, once you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five you don’t get to beprettyanymore.  So, sue him, but Glenn’s face flushes – just a bit.What he says is, “You got ugly.”Glenn picks up a hitchhiker.
Relationships: Glenn Fraldarius/Miklan
Comments: 4
Kudos: 141





	Strawberries & Cigarettes

**Author's Note:**

> it's very funny that miklan doesn't get a last name on ao3 tags that would make him furious and so i love it  
> find me on twit if u so desire [@ellipsometry_](http://twitter.com/ellipsometry_)

Miklan is holding his Coors Light so tightly the can is starting to dimple, like he doesn’t know his own strength. “Tell me something about you I would hate.”

Where to start? There can’t be much about him that Miklan wouldn’t hate. It’s like they were each created, perfectly crafted to diametrically oppose each other. It’s almost a novelty to have so many options open to him; Glenn could say almost anything. What comes out, though, is,” I graduated high school at fifteen. Went straight to college.”

A snort. “So you really were some kind of boy genius?”

“Something like that.”

At fifteen, Miklan runs away from home. No one looks for him. It’s his own fault, really – the lying, the stealing, the learned violence. And still, as with anything, there are factors beyond his control. The rumors, the back-stabbing, a father more than happy to wake up and find his eldest’s room blessedly empty.

Glenn, just eleven years old, watches Miklan with a cool indifference that chills to passive hate. _I’d never treat my brother like that_ , he thinks. And, paradoxically, he’s mad at Miklan for leaving, mad at the way Sylvain watches the door, half in fear, half in sad anticipation. _I’d never leave Felix like that._

But when Glenn turns fifteen, he leaves home too. And the circumstances may be wildly different, but there’s a kernel of similarity between them: two boys who grew up far too fast, who lost a little bit of themselves along the way, who ended up on a long stretch of highway looking for… well, who knows?

“You’re right,” Miklan grins over the rim of his beer, knocking the rest back and crushing the can in his hand. “I do fucking hate that.”

Miklan stands out amid the arid nothingness of the highway, a spot of bright red and black that catches Glenn’s attention as he struggles to stay awake after days and days of driving. He pulls over, curious more than anything. And when the man asks to bum a ride, Glenn’s half a second away from _saying absolutely the fuck not_ , when he spots the tattoo. The Gautier family is the only family Glenn knows that’s up their own ass enough to still tout a coat of arms, and the only person he can think of that would have a bastardized version of that ostentatious crest tattooed in all its flagrant glory on his massive, sunburnt bicep is—

“Miklan?

Miklan – _it has to be him, it just has to_ – takes one look at the car’s Connecticut license plate, the tell-tale curl at the end of Glenn’s ponytail, and his face crumples. “Fraldarius.”

But he gets in the car anyway.

“You mind if I smoke?”

“I do, actually,” Glenn says, but he reaches to lower the passenger side window anyway.

Miklan surprises him by pulling out a vape instead. He takes a puff, and Glenn holds back a snort-laugh at the scent, a sickly-sweet strawberry shortcake. “Whatever.”

Altogether, Miklan looks like a man who’s been dropped in the gutter a few times too many. There are small pock-mark scars on his face and shoulders, like he’s been dragged across asphalt, and one large jagged scar that lays diagonal along his face, crooked across a nose that’s definitely healed wrong after a break. His hair has grown to reach his shoulders in the back – _a mullet, a fucking mullet_ – but the most noticeable change might just be how massive he’s gotten. At fifteen, Miklan wasn’t small, but he wasn’t like this: pushing 6’6”, a brick wall of muscle and freckles wrapped in some truly hideous barbed wire tattoos.

“I’m surprised you remember me.” Miklan is the one to break the silence.

“You made an impression,” Glenn sighs. “I kind of hated you.”

“Join the fuckin’ club.”

“What about me?” Glenn chances a peek over at Miklan, but his face betrays no emotion. He’s not carrying anything with him aside from a small backpack. “How’d you recognize me?”

Miklan snorts, takes another puff of his vape. “Those fuckin’ eyes.”

He doesn’t elaborate; Glenn doesn’t ask.

They drive in silence. There’s not much to do in the way of catching up. Miklan has clearly had a rough go of it, Glenn doesn’t need the gritty details. And he doubts Miklan would care about his own rich-boy problems. So, they drive, and Miklan never does say where he’s trying to go, and they end up at a shitty hotel outside of a nowhere town, one with cigarette burns on the duvet and suspicious stains on the carpet. There’s only one bed, and they sit on opposite ends of it, although Miklan’s so massive that when he lays out against the headboard, he takes up most of the space. Glenn perches at the end of the bed as they talk and, a few beers deep, eventually swings his legs over Miklan’s, sitting in the crook of his bent knee.

“You got pretty,” Miklan announces, crushing another can and tossing it across the room.

It’s nothing Glenn hasn’t heard before, the same tired, lazy compliment he’s heard from frat boys and business executives alike. Glenn has always been short, maybe 5’5", all lithe muscle and a tapered waste. He’s not unaware of how he looks, long dark lashes, beauty mark under his lip, a silky ponytail tossed over his shoulder. He’s not _unaware_ of the impression he makes.

Still, once you’re on the wrong side of twenty-five you don’t get to be _pretty_ anymore. So, sue him, but Glenn’s face flushes – just a bit.

What he says is, “You got ugly.”

Miklan laughs at that – really laughs, hard enough that the bed shakes – and reaches for Glenn, one giant, trash-can lid hand grasping his hip, the other holding his chin with surprising gentleness. He says something, mumbles under his breath, and Glenn can’t make it out, can’t hear anything but the pounding of his own blood in his ears as Miklan pulls him into a kiss, something rough and biting and dirty. Miklan doesn’t wait to slip his tongue in Glenn’s mouth, doesn’t leave him room to breathe or even think.

“Fucking—” Glenn pushes him away with two hands, tiny against the span of Miklan’s chest. Here’s his chance to pull away, to nip in the bud whatever this is, this strange, painful reunion. Instead, he scrambles up the bed, climbing into Miklan’s lap, legs spread wide around the other man’s thighs. “Don’t make me regret picking you up,” Glenn mumbles, letting Miklan kiss a line down his neck. “I’ve had enough shit luck lately.”

“You don’t already?” Miklan wonders aloud, hands wrapping around Glenn’s waist. His fingers almost touch. And this time, Glenn hears what he whispers against his collarbone, before biting down hard, leaving a harsh, red mark.

_You’re the best bit of luck I’ve had in a while._

How sweet. How strange. Glenn holds Miklan’s head in his hands and kisses him until they’re both panting, breathless, hard in their jeans and rutting off against each other like two horny teenagers. Glenn is the first to come undone, just the sensation of Miklan’s hand holding his ass hard enough to bruise enough to light up sparks behind his eyes, and he bites back a groan as he comes in his jeans.

Miklan isn’t so polite to let him ride out his orgasm; he grabs Glenn’s hand and brings it to his own erection, straining hard against his zipper. “Shit— you’re so—” He uses his other hand to grab Glenn’s chin, firm, forcing him to look up. “Look at me, fucking—”

Glenn barely holds back a whimper, jaw aching beneath Miklan’s fingers, brain still fuzzy as he comes down from the post-orgasm high. Maybe regret is setting in, or maybe his body is preparing for round two, spent cock twitching traitorously in his soaked boxers.

“You used to look at me like you wanted to kill me,” Miklan says, voice rough, grating Glenn’s senses. Glenn rubs the line of Miklan’s cock with his palm, and the other man grunts, hips twitching up. “Now look at you, gagging for it, desperate for it. You’re so—” Whatever he’s about to say is lost; Miklan’s fingernails bite crescent moons into Glenn’s cheeks, keeping their eyes locked on each other as he comes, silent save for a shuddering exhale.

When Miklan finally releases his grip, Glenn slumps down onto his chest. And any afterglow is swiftly ruined when Miklan grunts out, “Shit. That was my last pair of good boxers.”

They shower (at Glenn’s insistence) have a cigarette break (at Miklan’s insistence, though Glenn doesn’t partake, just watches the smoke curl out of Miklan’s mouth, taking note of small scar on his lip) and finally fall asleep, Glenn curled up on Miklan’s massive chest like an oversized house cat.

It is – against all odds, logic, and reasonable thought – kind of nice.

As kids, they used to go on hunting trips, the two of them and their fathers, piled into Rodrigue’s truck for the hour or so drive out to the hunting grounds. Miklan would argue about every decision with his father, snap at Glenn and Rodrigue over anything, everything – the angle of their shot, what they ate for lunch, the path they took through the woods. When he wanted to be, Miklan could be an outright deadly hunter. More often, though, he would sabotage the hunt for the sake of it, stomping around in his tactical boots, twigs snapping underfoot, deer sent scattering. By the time Sylvain was old enough to join them, Miklan’s antics had reached a fever pitch. Glenn was sure Miklan would shoot his own brother one day; chalk it up to an accident.

“You never said where you were headed,” Glenn says, turning down the radio in anticipation of Miklan’s response. Oddly enough, their music tastes are similar enough that it only took five minutes of arguing to settle on a radio station.

“I didn’t,” Miklan says, tossing the wrapper to his breakfast burrito out the window. And, before Glenn can scold him for littering, says, “Neither did you.”

Glenn frowns, turns his eyes back to the road. “Seattle. I’m starting a new job.”

“And you decided to take the scenic route from Connecticut through Texas,” Miklan snorts. “You’re a long way from home.”

 _Look who’s talking._ But Glenn doesn’t really want to think about all the specific twists of fate and happenstances that would lead to two childhood enemies ending up on the same lonely stretch of highway at the exact same time. He doesn’t want to think about the lies and the secrets and all the reasons why spending weeks driving aimlessly had seemed like such a good idea.

Time has mellowed Miklan, in a manner of speaking. Instead of screaming he grumbles; instead of swinging fists at the first minor inconvenience he begins to pout, retreat into himself. A teenage sociopath, a caged animal, the object of all of Glenn’s ire – now, he’s just a man. In a way, that’s the best revenge of all. Glenn wouldn’t call it fondness, per se, but there’s a certain comfort to being around someone who knows where you’ve come from, knows all too well the roots that dig into you and make you who you are.

And, to be honest, it’s refreshing to share a bed with someone who doesn’t require an explanation.

“You’re drooling.”

“Shut up,” Glenn snaps, but he wipes his mouth quickly. They drive all day and a good portion into the night, and Glenn’s not quite so crazy as to allow Miklan behind the wheel of his car, but he’s just crazy enough to climb back into bed with him at another shitty motel.

Miklan is _big_. Large enough that when Glenn finally gets a good look at his cock, he can’t help the way his mouth waters, the way his ass clenches reflexively. Glenn grips Miklan’s half-hard cock in his hand and whimpers at the thought of it sinking into him.

“C’mon, there’s no way I’m the biggest you’ve had,” Miklan’s breath is hot against the shell of Glenn’s ear. His hands are pulling Glenn’s ass cheeks apart, fingers sliding slow and aching against his rim. “I know sluts like you.”

Glenn huffs out a laugh, squirming against Miklan’s fingers, mouth dropping out when one finally slips inside, a rough, dry stretch. “Shut up. You just want to hear me say it.”

“Say what?”

“That you’re the biggest I’ve ever had,” Glenn strokes up Miklan’s cock, flicking his wrist just so, and Miklan groans deep in his chest. “You are. Happy now?”

“Will be once I’m fucking this hole,” Miklan grunts out, teeth gritted. He’s already fucking Glenn’s hand, tiny twitches of his hips that Glenn would find cute were it anyone else.

For all his confidence, Glenn is shivering with anticipating, legs shaking as Miklan lays him out against the scratchy motel sheets, unceremoniously pulling out some lube he’s had hidden in his pocket – _Picked this up at the gas station earlier, knew you’d give it up, Fraldarius_ – and Glenn would be furious if he wasn’t so busy biting down on his hand hard enough to draw blood, holding back a litany of embarrassing noises as Miklan strokes his prostate, tugs and pulls at his rim, plays with him for what feels like hours until Glenn is holding back tears and his hole is swollen, pink, and wet.

“D-Didn’t take you— ff, fuck— to be such a g-generous lover.” 

“I’m not,” Miklan, seemingly pleased, pulls his fingers out, wiping them on the duvet. “Just tryin’ not to literally kill you.”

 _You’re not_ that _big,_ Glenn goes to say, but he’s clearly wrong – Miklan slaps his cock once, twice against Glenn’s twitching hole, feeding the head in steadily, and all the air leaves Glenn’s lungs.

“Stop clenching,” Miklan says, teeth gritted, slapping Glenn’s ass. A bit counterintuitive – Glenn clenches harder, a startled moan dripping from his lips. “Oh, you like that?” Miklan slips two fingers in Glenn’s open mouth, and Glenn can taste himself on them, along with some truly disgusting flavored lube. _Strawberry._

This was not where Glenn intended to end up: beneath a man he had always claimed to hate, legs spread obediently, clenching around his cock, mouth stuffed with his fingers, face wet with tears and drool. Now that he’s here, though—

“Fuck me,” Glenn mumbles, voice muffled around Miklan’s fingers. 

Maybe he’s not expecting it; Miklan stills for just a second, face rearranging around a new crease between his eyebrows. “Yeah?” he finally grins, returning to pushing into Glenn, stretching him out inch by inch. “You want my cock, pretty boy?”

“Shut up,” Glenn bites Miklan’s fingers; they stay put. “I said fuck me. Like you mean it.”

“You asked for it,” Miklan grunts, mouth falling open as he finally bottoms out. 

Miklan fucks like he does everything else – thoughtless, rough, selfish. Glenn’s just along for the ride, a convenient fuck, a sleeve for a cock that can barely fit inside him. Miklan sweats and grunts and grips Glenn’s hips hard enough to leave a string of fingerprint bruises. He rails into Glenn so hard they slide up the bed, and Glenn has to brace himself against the headboard, eyes rolling back in his head when the angle hits his sweet spot just right.

“F— fuck!” Glenn bites at his fist to quiet himself, hiccupping down a sob as Miklan’s cock hits him _just fucking right, yes goddess, yes—_

“Noisy,” Miklan grunts out. He’s not so quiet himself, and the lewd, wet noises of his cock slipping through the lube that leaks from Glenn’s ass, the slap of his balls, thighs on thighs – that’s the noisiest of all. Glenn says a silent prayer for whatever poor soul is renting the room next door, and wails when Miklan’s hand closes around his hard-on, red and leaking against the V of his hips.

“W-Wait – shit, that hurts you know,” Glenn scrambles against the sheets because it _doesn’t_ hurt it’s just too fucking much all at once. Miklan slows his thrusts, leaning down to rest a forearm against Glenn’s throat – like a promise, like a threat. He could kill Glenn, easily, if he really wanted, with just a bit more weight on his slender neck. Could tuck away all those childhood resentments neatly in his back pocket, consider it case closed. 

Instead, he leans down _just_ enough, not enough to cut off Glenn’s airway, but enough to have him sucking in shuddering breaths, stars glittering behind his eyes. One more well-timed flick of Miklan’s wrist and Glenn comes hard, back arching, taut like a bowstring. He doesn’t have enough air to scream, so he whimpers – _pathetic,_ he thinks, even as he shakes through aftershocks.

And _goddess_ , he hates to admit it – it’s the best fuck he’s had in a while.

“Fuckin’ finally—” Miklan pulls his arm back, and Glenn sucks in a hard breath, coughing and drooling. He’s too tired, too fucked-out to do anything but go boneless beneath Miklan as his thrusts become haphazard. Miklan must like him like this, overstimulated and jittery like a raw nerve, perfectly malleable, easy to use. He slaps Glenn’s ass a few more times, forcing Glenn to clench down on him, milk his cock. And it could be five minutes or five hours more before Miklan finally comes, biting down on a soft spot of Glenn’s neck hard enough to draw blood, flooding his insides, holding himself inside until he’s soft. By the time he pulls out, Glenn is itchy, wet, and overstimulated to hell and back, shivering against the scratchy sheets.

At the very least, Miklan has the courtesy to flop over next to him, rather than right on top of him. “Fuck. I needed that.”

“Hm,” Glenn just hums in response, already daydreaming about the shower he’ll take, the steam of the shower, the nice refreshing feeling after a good fuck—

“What the hell are you doing?”

Miklan pauses at the question, arm already halfway around Glenn’s waist. “What?”

“Are you…” Glenn blinks his blurry eyes clear. “Are you trying to cuddle?”

It’s a new sight: Miklan’s face goes as red as his hair, face folding and unfolding from rage to embarrassment to defensiveness, finally settling on a petulant frown, bushy eyebrows furrowed low against his eyes. “Is that a fucking problem, Fraldarius?”

Glenn is decidedly not a _cuddler_. Boyfriends and one-night stands throughout the years have called him every name under the sun: cold, distant, frigid. There’s a gulf between sex and affection that Glenn’s never been able to navigate. Reach out and find that no one is there to catch you; see a hand reach for you and turn your eye away deftly. He maintains a careful distance with everyone but the most important people in his life. It becomes practiced, easy. It breaks him down after a while.

That’s not to say anything about Miklan makes him feel affectionate. There’s no way Miklan, even with hands as large as they are, would endeavor to catch him. Why would he, when Glenn wouldn’t do the same? Why would they ever, when they’d just as soon give each other matching black eyes, and feel ten times more satisfaction?

And still. 

It’s not bad, being here. Feeling small like this, the human space heater that is Miklan is huddled around him, both of them fucked out and half asleep and sticky and gross in a way they’ll certainly regret tomorrow morning. Glenn has to laugh. Or, rather, he would laugh if he had any energy left for it.

“Your feet are cold,” Miklan grumbles when Glenn stretches his feet out to tangle with his. Still, he doesn’t move away.

“I’m not cold, you’re just unnaturally warm.”

“Am not.”

Petulant as always. Everything has to be a fight. Miklan is too easy to rile up, just a bunch of red buttons emblazoned with _DO NOT PRESS_ amalgamated into a human shape. And Glenn loves to press buttons, to pick a fight – but he recognizes an inferior opponent when he sees one.

It’s as easy as this: Glenn turns his head to kiss the side of Miklan’s neck soft, the stubble there scratching his lips. “Go to sleep, big guy.”

For once, Miklan goes down without a fight.


End file.
